


The Harp

by Tedronai



Series: Everything Is Better with Asmodean [2]
Category: Wheel of Time - Robert Jordan
Genre: Angst, Asmodean Lives, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-29
Updated: 2014-04-29
Packaged: 2018-01-21 06:26:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1540940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tedronai/pseuds/Tedronai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rand gives Asmodean a new harp to replace the one he lost.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Harp

**Author's Note:**

> Reeeally short, but I felt it needed to be written. Any and all feedback greatly appreciated (as always).
> 
> Thanks to Pettymotives (yes, you're all sick of hearing this but bear with me) for pointing me in the right direction regarding Asmodean's relationship with music. I hope I did it justice.

The package was waiting on Asmodean’s bed one evening when he retired to his room. From the shape and size of the package Asmodean had a reasonably good idea what was inside even before he began to slowly peel the wrapping cloth away. Even so, his heart sank a little as he uncovered the harp.

At first he couldn’t understand why. He had lost his old harp — _that day_ — and he did enjoy playing; this sense of disappointment, almost of loss, settling in the pit of his stomach made no sense. He ran his hand along the smooth, polished wood of the harp. Maple, it was, pale and gleaming dully in the dim light of the sphere he had channelled. Strong and fine-grained, quality maple wood made for good instruments. And this was a truly fine instrument, a product of exceptional craftsmanship; he could tell that much without playing a single note.

Yet the sight of it brought him no joy or satisfaction.

“Do you like it?” a voice said behind him.

Asmodean turned to see Rand al’Thor standing in the doorway. The small room — little more than a glorified closet, really; a servant’s room adjoining al’Thor’s bedchamber — felt crowded for his presence even though he was as unimposing and at ease as Asmodean had ever seen him. The faint smile on his lips had an expectant quality; he was clearly eager to see the reaction to his gift — because that was what the harp had to be. Asmodean found himself at a loss for words. In itself an unusual state for him, the detached observer part of his mind noted wryly.

“It is a generous gift, my Lord Dragon,” he managed eventually. “Thank you.”

Al’Thor frowned. Obviously he could see that something was off, but he seemed to be unsure whether it was worth trying to get to the bottom of the issue. In the end he decided to let it lie. “Ah, it’s nothing,” he said with a shrug. “I mean, you’re supposed to be my bard. You need an instrument. And there was a harp maker in the city who was more than happy to work for the Dragon Reborn…”

“For a sufficient sum of money, I’m sure,” Asmodean added.

That earned him a chuckle. “Well, nothing is for free,” al’Thor said lightly. He waited for a while longer, but when Asmodean failed to express whatever enthusiasm he was possibly expecting, he shrugged again, this time looking slightly awkward. “I’ll just… leave you alone, then. Good night, Natael.”

“Good night,” Asmodean replied absently.

After al’Thor was gone, Asmodean sat on the bed and picked up the harp. Its weight — slightly heavier than the gaudy, gilded thing he had had before — was a strange mix of comforting familiarity and something that felt like chains. A bard to the Dragon Reborn. Was that all he was ever going to be? Someone fit to amuse and entertain?

Perhaps that was fitting. Perhaps it was all a failed composer from a long-forgotten Age could hope for. Perhaps he should be grateful. Perhaps he should… Perhaps…

As if of their own accord, his hands moved along the instrument, plucking the strings one by one, adjusting the tuning where needed. The sound was clear and articulate; he could make this instrument speak a language more eloquent than any poet of this thrice damned Age. That thought brought a small measure of grim satisfaction, stirring his vanity. And if it was insufficient to fill or even properly cover the gaping hollow feeling in his chest, well, life just wasn’t perfect.

He settled with his back against the wall, closed his eyes and let his hands fall into the familiar pattern, teasing the sorrowful notes of _March of Death_ out of the beautiful instrument. It seemed a fitting tune to get acquainted with his new harp.


End file.
